Best Day Ever

by Kaira Rouda

  Written in barely legible script are the instructions: “For spring opening and cleaning. Please send payment immediately. Thank you. Betsy.” I pull an image of Betsy from my mind, and see a woman with missing teeth who smells like an ashtray. She and her crew do a good cleaning job, despite her personal toxic scent. I haven’t opened the cottage before, but imagine it must be a messy job. The place has been closed up tight since the end of October. All kinds of bugs and grime and who knows what had accumulated, I’m sure. A distasteful job, far below anything I would ever consider doing for a living. How is it that some of us are housecleaners, and some are executives? There’s the universe again, bestowing brains and looks and charm on a chosen few of us, the lucky ones.

  I open the cupboard and pull out a cocktail glass and then another for Mia. I’m going to wave the white flag, so to speak, with a vodka tonic. I open the refrigerator. It’s empty. We haven’t been to the store for limes, or anything else. I realize I should offer to go. I pull open the back door and step onto the driveway, walking around the house to find Mia. Her back is to me, and she’s still on the phone, her head tilted to the side, bending into the phone in her hand.

  I quietly walk up behind her. She doesn’t know I’m here.

  “I’m so glad. That is perfect...Yes, Mom, I’m fine,” she says, and as I wonder why she’s speaking to Phyllis, she turns and screams, dropping her phone into the grass. “Paul! Why did you sneak up on me?”

  I hold up my hands, shocked by her outburst, and the fear in her eyes. I have no idea why she is so jumpy, but attribute it to our earlier tense talks. I need to calm her down, get our best day ever back on track. She needs a drink. I watch as she bends down and picks up her phone.

  “Mia—” I begin, but she holds her hand out to stop me.

  “Mom, I’m fine. Paul just snuck up on me, that’s all,” my wife says into the phone. A moment passes. I wonder what Phyllis is telling her daughter. “Good. Yes. I’ll call you tomorrow. Thank you again.”

  She pushes the End button and then she looks at me. “What were you doing? Why were you sneaking up on me?” she says. I see panic in her eyes.

  “Calm down, honey,” I say, taking a step closer to her, wanting to pull her into my arms. She steps back, shoulders at her ears, eyes wide and unblinking.

  “You scared me,” she says. She has folded her arms across her chest, like a coat of armor.

  “Obviously. I was just coming out to ask if you’d like a cocktail. And, if you’d like lime, I’d be happy to run to the grocery. I’d be glad to get anything you need,” I say. I want to tell her to remember that I am her knight in shining armor, but I don’t.

  “Yes, that would be lovely. I have a whole list of things we’re missing. And did you transfer the money? For the boys?” she asks. She seems to be calming down now. Her eyes aren’t as wide or wild.

  “Done,” I assure her. This is a lie. But I will handle it as soon as I go back inside. “Where’s the list? I’ll just be gone for a little while. Unless you want to come with me?”

  “No, I’ll stay and finish getting the cottage in order. The list is on the table by the front door,” she says.

  “Okay, I’m on it,” I say, turning to walk back toward the house. I pause and turn back to face my wife. I’m suddenly concerned. It is odd that she would be speaking to her mother on a Friday evening. Typically Phyllis and Donald’s social life wouldn’t allow for any type of evening chitchat. They appreciate cocktail hour more than most. I study my wife and I say, “Hey, is everything okay with your mom?”

  “Yes, she’s fine.” Mia blinks, breaking eye contact, and then bends at the waist, eager to pull what must be a weed out of the garden bed that edges our house. I know soon she will be planting pots of bright red geraniums to complement the bright red door of the cottage. The garden beds will be filled with white flowers: daisies, hydrangeas and other varieties that I cannot name. Some magically appear and some Mia plants, carefully digging holes and tucking in the flowers as if they were little kids ready for sleep. By midsummer, her gardens, our gardens, are always the talk of Columbus. I know that will be the case here, too. She still doesn’t look at me, concentrating on her weeding. Her hands are covered in wet, smelly dirt. I sniff.

  I haven’t moved. She stops weeding, stands up straight and says, “My mom and I were just touching base, you know.”

  She tosses that refrain, “you know,” onto the end of her sentences when she wants the conversation to end. Something she’s clearly hoping for as she continues to ignore me while managing to yank out almost everything within reach. I wonder if she may be pulling out some perennials, but I hold my tongue. She knows gardening like I know sales. I decide to let the issue of this conversation with her mom go for now. I feel confident Phyllis is under my control and that she has been loosely under my spell since the first pillbox.

  “Good. Glad to know Phyllis is well. I hope you gave her my best. I’m off to the store,” I say and walk away. I’m not going to let Mia’s strange behavior bother me anymore. We’re going to have the best night ever together. That will smooth over any of the tension left over from the drive.

  It’s probably due to her new diet restrictions. Ever since she found the holistic doctor, she’s been even crabbier. She started a few months ago with our general practitioner. He had diagnosed my wife as just a stressed-out mom, after ruling out lupus, and then ulcers. Maybe it was general fatigue, he’d told us. So many busy moms suffer from it. He sent us home, telling Mia to get more sleep each night. Brilliant diagnosis. On her own, Mia found some quasi-medical practice that believes in “holistic” medicine. She’s been getting IV drips of vitamins once a week, eating vegetarian, drinking water out of glass bottles, but still, she doesn’t feel well. Poor Mia. Nothing seems to help her constant stomachache and general nausea. I’ll make sure she has a very nice meal tonight.

  Back in the kitchen, I pour myself a shot of Tito’s vodka, tipping it back quickly. A small shudder runs through my body as the alcohol hits my system. I walk through the house and find the list on the table next to the front door, as Mia had instructed. There’s a lot more than limes written in her precise and elegant penmanship: cheese, crackers and grapes. Coffee for the morning. Bread and peanut butter. Water in glass bottles. Lettuce and apples, organic. Mia’s favorite cereal and milk. Jam for the croissants. Well, she won’t need that. It’s not that long a list, I suppose. Nothing compared to what she fetches from the grocery store for the boys and me each week. I will handle gathering these items with pleasure, I tell myself and put a smile on my face.

  As I back out of the driveway, I realize the car still holds the aromas of our drive. It smells of Mia’s new organic body lotion, lime-and-coconut scented, and my spicy aftershave. There is a hint of sweat in the air, and the smell of pepperoni pizza grease, from the slice I couldn’t finish and took to go, now waiting for me in the refrigerator. And there is one other scent I register as I wave to Mia and turn the corner, watching her and our cottage disappear in my rearview mirror. It’s the smell of my boys, the distinct blend of stinky sweaty soccer gear and after-bath freshness.

  Briefly, I wonder if I should have included them this weekend, made them part of the plans. No, it’s fine. They’re the future, the symbols of my immortality. They’re fine back home with Claudia.

  5:30 p.m.

  10

  Frank’s Market, the small grocery store just outside the main gate of Lakeside, does a booming business in the summers, though I’m not certain how it survives in the winter. The cramped parking lot is crowded with cars tonight. I squeeze the Flex in beside the metal chest filled with self-serve bags of ice for one dollar.

  There are barely any people in Lakeside year-round, as I mentioned. Certainly no one would be buying ice during the brutal winters. Buck is one of the few exceptions if he actually does live here full-time. It’s w
eird to stay here year-round. It’s not a place conducive to that. It’s cold and isolated and void of creature comforts. Maybe Frank’s closes in the winter months. It should.

  I walk into the place and push my mini shopping cart down the first aisle, almost running over the tennis shoe of a woman standing in my way. I give her a look and she steps back as she should. The shelves are crowded too close for regular-sized carts, and there are far too many people in the store for shopping to be anything but a chore. I will hurry.

  I shake my head, looking at the selection—you can’t be picky here. The produce looks like it has endured being at a large grocery store first; I imagine that after it was not selected by shoppers in a big city, it was shipped here for its final chance. The lettuce is strictly iceberg, wrapped in plastic, and more white than green. The apples are bruised, and the grapes, well, they’re simply unacceptable. “Sorry, honey,” I mumble. Turning the corner, I find crackers and Mia’s cereal, both looking as if they may be undamaged. But looks can be deceiving. I find the cheese selection. Three offerings: Cracker Barrel cheddar, string cheese for kids, and Velveeta slices. The cheddar it is.

  Typically, Mia will go to the gourmet market near our home for provisions for the lake, but this trip, she said, she ran out of time. I’m not sure what she was so busy doing, but it’s not like we’ll starve. We’ll just eat more simply. Up here, they haven’t heard about organic foods, and as far as vegetables, well, it’s mostly in cans unless it’s corn, iceberg lettuce or potatoes. The limes look passable, thank goodness.

  There is a sushi place we like just a short drive down the coast, but these days, we don’t go there much. The kids like it because they have hibachi grills and chefs who flip shrimp tails at them, make volcanoes out of onion slices and basically entertain them through the entire meal. Before Mia stopped eating “animal protein,” we liked it because they have sushi-grade fish and a full bar, and the kids are happy. Their vegetarian options, however, aren’t “optimal,” according to my wife. Since she has changed we haven’t been. It’s a shame.

  This grocery store is not optimal, according to me. It reminds me of a gas station, but with some attempts at fresh food tossed in. I think they should stick to packaged stuff and alcohol. Oh, and yes, that is the primary reason Frank’s Market survives, I assure you. Ten feet away, you drive through the gates of a dry little town. All of us heathens stock up before we enter, and pop over here to replenish.

  As I wait in line to check out, I wonder if Buck will have the nerve to show up at my house for happy hour. It’s a disturbing thought, nagging at the back of my mind: he actually might. I check my watch, and note the time is 5:45 p.m. My ideal scenario would be to arrive back at the cottage before him, if he were to appear. Then I would be the one answering the door, there to discourage his presence at my home at all. If he or Mia insisted, I would find a way to tell him man-to-man why lingering would not be prudent. I need to hurry.

  There is a line of five other customers in front of me and one cashier, a local or Frank himself perhaps, a thin man with a circular bald spot on top of his head and stringy gray hair pulled into a strange-looking ponytail. His nails are yellowed, presumably from smoking.

  Those fingernails resemble my late father’s, yellow and cracked. They bring me back to my childhood, sitting at our dining room table, a dinner plate in front of me with an untouched portion of green beans. My father was tapping his yellowed fingernails on the table. I must have been Sam’s age, maybe younger. I had finished eating the meat loaf and the mashed potatoes, but I was not able to get myself to ingest any of the beans. My mother had kindly suggested that I be allowed to leave the table but my father stood up, shoving his chair back into the dining room wall.

  “He will sit at this table until that plate is clean,” he said. He was the king, and we were all his subjects. My little brother gave me a sympathetic look before pushing his chair back and hurrying to carry his plate into the kitchen. He knew the storm was brewing; the air was thick with tension. My stomach threatened me with bile. My mother touched my shoulder on her way to the kitchen, but said nothing. I heard her murmuring to my father in the other room, smelled the sulfur from the match he’d blown out after lighting his cigarette.

  “I told you he will finish it all. That’s final,” he yelled at my mother. I could hear the sliding glass door to the back patio open as he stepped outside, closing it with a solid thud.

  I remember I wished then that we could lock him out there forever. I remember that feeling of hope and escape if it were possible. But I knew in my heart, from my earliest childhood forward, there was no escape from a dictator. He was bigger than me, larger than life. I had to learn to outsmart him, to play his game better than he could. Until we were teenagers, he beat us. He had a fondness for yanking his belt out of his pants loops and slashing our thighs and bottoms with it for the smallest offenses.

  I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, of course. Everybody has to go through things in this life. Sure, I sugarcoat my childhood when I’m talking to strangers, when I’m talking to anyone, including Mia, about it. I tell them about cozy family dinners, at the house and out at the fancy restaurant. But that’s a survival trick I learned from my mother, I suppose. You don’t discuss family dirty laundry, not at all. You smile and quietly accept what comes your way. Don’t make waves, not until you’re the one in control. Then you get your revenge.

  My six-year-old self finally gave in after a couple of hours sitting alone at the table in the dark. I picked up one of the green beans, grown limp and cold and slimy, and placed it on my tongue and then slid it to the back of my throat. Of course, I vomited my dinner all over the table, and myself. I knew I would, I suppose, somewhere down inside. I won that battle. Never had to eat a green bean at my house again. They’re symbolic of victory for me now. I made a point to eat them whenever we were someplace else, like the nice restaurant in town. I pretended to love all green beans except the ones he wanted me to eat. Each green bean I ate in his presence, say at a restaurant, slowly and with a smile, reminded my father of the night I won. It was a green-coated foreshadowing of my ultimate victory.

  By now you’re probably wondering why my wife and I were comfortable living in a home next to my parents, the same dictator and his accomplice who were the villains of my childhood. Well, the simple answer is we needed help with childcare, for starters. Plus I am too old to beat with a belt, and I didn’t need his money to live. He couldn’t hurt me anymore and he wouldn’t dare touch my boys.

  Perhaps I also wanted to allow my parents a glimpse at how great my life is compared to theirs, how beautiful my wife is, how rich we are. Our house is bigger, of course, twice the size of theirs and we have double the backyard. It was almost as if they lived in the outhouse of my large mansion, or at least I liked to think of it that way. My life has more of everything. I proved to them that I could move into this upscale suburb now, when it was the place to be. When they moved here, it wasn’t. They were just lucky. Me, I’m übersuccessful. I wanted them to see that, to see each of my boys and how happy they are. Watch as they eat whatever they’d like, as much or as little as they wish. Yes, living well is the best revenge.

  I’m the opposite of my father in many ways. I fight to be like that, to be his opposite, every day, tamping down the anger that’s there, the fire-filled rage he instilled inside me from an early age. It’s like a wildfire that is 80 percent contained. It flares up sometimes, but it’s mostly under control. In fact, most people who meet me in the business world think I’m easygoing, friendly, the life of the party. And I am, because I work hard to be those things.

  Living next door to the person you despise gives you a constant reminder to be better, to do better. My little brother, Tom, moved away years ago, and none of us have heard from him since he graduated college. Well, he did “call in” to the private funeral, but that hardly counts. His absence all these years was a stra
in on my mom, I’m sure, no doubt contributing to her early onset Alzheimer’s, even though he would never take responsibility for that, I’m sure. He’d rather hide in California, pretend none of us existed until there was a chance for an inheritance. Too bad, Tommy, too bad.

  Who knows, maybe it wasn’t Tom’s fault. Maybe my mom just wanted to fade away from the ogre she had married and allowed to rule her roost. That could be the case. My hope back then was that it was contagious, the Alzheimer’s, that soon I’d see my father decline into a babbling, drooling mess. I dreamed about that too often, imagining his slip into helplessness as a just punishment for his crimes. It never happened, but that’s fine because the gas took care of it. It doesn’t bother me that I now live next to the house where my parents died, though as I mentioned, Mia thinks it ought to. Why should it? We all go sometime. It was their time.

  As for my long-lost brother calling in to the funeral, that really happened. Mia and the boys and I walk into the funeral parlor, both caskets closed up in front, the rent-a-pastor standing stoically, awaiting our arrival.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” the preacher said, nodding at us. “I’m sure you won’t mind that we have one more person here who wishes to pay his respects. Your brother, Tom, couldn’t be with us today in person, but he did want to participate in the service remotely.”

  That’s when the preacher pointed to a cell phone propped on top of my dad’s casket.

  “Are you kidding me? Tommy?” I managed before Mia grabbed my arm.

  “Hey, big brother. How’s it going?” the cell phone said.

  I tilted my head, the shock clearing at the sound of his voice. I knew why he’d made contact, but there was nothing left. I’d made sure of it. “I’ve been better, Tommy. Where are you?”